


Innovation

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [20]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Homosexuality, M/M, Relationship(s), Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7309597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If I did not want to be here, I would not be. It has been—how many—years? Surely you know that I understand that Sherlock Holmes is unique among men, and surely you know that I—your friend and lover and doctor and Boswell—adore you exactly the way you are.”</p>
<p>Explanations are required pertaining to cruel remarks and new clothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innovation

“What in heaven’s name are those?” Sherlock exclaimed, amusement and distain being presented in equal terms by the cadence of his voice.  
  
“You know perfectly well what these are,” I replied in an even tone. I was not going to rise to his deliberate antagonism. “You are running a great risk of me leaving again,” I added, almost nonchalantly. That did it.  
  
“No! You will not leave again!” he cried, and I could hear the anguish and terror now.  
  
“No, of course I will not leave again,” I soothed as I continued to unpack. “I told you that.”  
  
He sighed. He was stretched out upon my bed, watching me keenly as I drew my clothes out of my valise and put them away. He had been curled around my case, on his side, but now he gracefully rolled onto his back and, dropping his head over the edge of the mattress, continued to observe me, now upside-down.  
  
We had had a long morning.  
  
*  
  
“Good morning, Sherlock,” I had said as a way of announcing my return. “May I join you for breakfast?” I put my valise by the door and hung up my coat and hat.  
  
“There is more than enough,” he had replied coolly, waving a languid hand at the plate in front of him.  
  
There most certainly was. Mrs. Hudson had loaded her tray: eggs and toast; porridge. Kippers. Grapes. Some sort of cream-filled cake. She was clearly trying to offer the thin man as great a variety as possible in order to entice him to eat something—anything.  
  
It was all untouched save the coffee.  
  
“You are thinner; you have not been eating,” I reprimanded, seating myself. “You worry our poor landlady to death when you do that.”  
  
“But not you.”  
  
“Yes, of course, I worry about you as much—if not more—than she.”  
  
“If you were so worried, you would not have moved out.”  
  
I had been expecting this, but the bitter words hurt nonetheless. “I am perfectly capable of being angry enough at you to move out whilst still being concerned about your well-being,” I replied with dignity.  
  
“That makes no sense whatsoever,” he remarked, rising from the table.  
  
“It is the truth whether or not it makes sense to you,” I pointed out.  
  
He walked past me, and I was surprised to feel him brush against my shoulder as he made his way to the table reserved for his chemical experiments. “Use my cup,” he offered suddenly. Of course he had followed my train of thought as I examined the contents of the table.  
  
“Thank you.” I did so, and also eagerly consumed the eggs, toast, and kippers.  
  
He was now adding drops of something to a beaker in a somewhat lethargic fashion.  
  
“Anything interesting?” I inquired when the silence finally unnerved me.  
  
“Mmm. I suppose. I’ve discovered how a Mrs. Madison had been poisoning her husband, bit by bit.”  
  
“Oh! For a case?”  
  
“No—just interested. It was in the papers. She was not a very good poisoner, as it turned out. She had been at it for twenty years before the poor fellow finally expired.”  
  
“Has she been charged with murder?”  
  
“No. He was struck by an omnibus.”  
  
The absurdity of our conversation caught me by surprise and I choked on my coffee.  
  
“Are you all right?” he asked in concern, gazing at me, his eyes wide.  
  
“Yes… of course. Just went down the wrong pipe,” I replied, clearing my throat. “So a poisoner but not a murderess?”  
  
“I have not been able to detect any connection between her and the omnibus driver, so no, not a murderess.” The seriousness with which he offered this statement set me laughing again.  
  
“I missed this,” I admitted when I had calmed myself.  
  
“You did not have a reason to,” he pointed out rather sulkily, shoving the beaker away from himself and staring down at the battered table top. “You did not have to go away.”  
  
“I did, and you know why.”  
  
“It was not my fault.” He sounded like a small boy explaining away a broken vase.  
  
“It was,” I countered.  
  
“You were being overly emotional!”  
  
“You were being deliberately cruel!”  
  
“I was not! I did not intend to be…” his rancour, which had surfaced so suddenly, just as suddenly disappeared.  
  
“Did not intend to be what?” I encouraged. I wanted him to admit his culpability in our disagreement. He had been cruel, and until that moment I was sure that it _had_ been deliberate.  
  
“I did not intend to be cruel. I did not intend to hurt you, John.”  
  
“But you did. I have a thick skin—after so many years of being with you I must have—but this time you went much too far.”  
  
“I am sorry. I have told you already. I told you that night.”  
  
“It did not seem terribly sincere.”  
  
“But then you left. How was I to explain myself—to apologise further—if you were not here to listen?” Still facing the table, and away from me, he had wrapped his arms around himself; his chin to his chest.  
  
“You could have written me a letter. That is what you usually do.”  
  
“I did write you a letter,” he explained in a small voice.  
  
“I did not receive it.”  
  
“I did not post it.”  
  
I could stand this no more. I rose and went to him, wrapping my arms around him. He had lost weight—I had only been away for a fortnight, but I knew his habits and I was sure that other than coffee and tea, little had passed his lips since my departure.  
  
“My darling,” I murmured, kissing the back of his neck. “Why did you not? I longed to have a letter from you. You always write to me when we are apart—even when our separation is a painful one.”  
  
“I was not certain that you would read it.”  
  
I embraced him more tightly. “I always read your letters; you know that,” I chided. “That is not the reason you did not send it. Will you come sit with me and tell me what happened to change your mind about it?”  
  
He did not seem inclined to move even after I unwrapped myself from his gaunt frame, so I gently tugged him across the room by his hand. Not releasing him, I sat in my favourite chair. He now stood in front of me, still not looking at my face. “I want you here,” I indicated, patting my leg. “I want to hold you.”  
  
Finally, he all but collapsed into my lap. As always, he was light and no great burden, and he was cautious about putting his weight on my bad leg. I wrapped my arms around him again and arranged him so that his head was on my shoulder. I had found this to be the most conducive position when we were having a difficult conversation; it allowed him to talk without looking directly at me, and it allowed me to comfort him whilst he did so.  
  
I kissed his cheek and inhaled the fragrance of his light scent: smoke and peppermint. “I missed you so very much,” I murmured. “I do worry about you—every minute that we are apart.”  
  
“Then why did you _leave_?” He sounded almost tearful and I felt a distinct stab of regret.  
  
“I needed time to cool off,” I explained. “I was angry and hurt, and I did not want to exacerbate the situation by expressing those feelings when I was so hot.”  
  
“I did not intend for you to be angry. I truly didn’t. Please believe me,” he begged. “I do say thoughtless and cruel things sometimes. I cannot explain why. I know that I am being awful, but I cannot seem to stop myself.”  
  
I sighed. I knew that he was being sincere. I was certainly not the only target for his sharp tongue, and even when I warned him to be silent, he would inevitably say the worst, most inappropriate things—often to clients, or to members of the constabulary. This had never once ended well.  
  
“It is a very bad habit of yours,” I agreed as gently as I was able.  
  
“It has always been,” he admitted. “My… family tried to discourage it; to teach me to behave, but I was quite stubborn. I saw no reason not to state the truth at all times, even when it was hurtful.”  
  
“You do know better,” I pointed out.  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
“And you know that there is rarely a time when saying hurtful and insulting things _is_ acceptable.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But you do it anyway.” He was silent with misery at this. I felt awful. “We do not need to continue this discussion right now,” I offered. “I have missed you terribly and I want to hear about the not-murderess and her ineffective poison.”  
  
“Not right this moment.”  
  
“No?” His reticence surprised me. “All right. What would you like to do?”  
  
“Can we just stay like this until I am sure that you are really home again and you know that I am truly sorry for what I said?”  
  
“Oh, my love! Of course we can.” I would not have wanted to move right at that moment even if he had risen from my lap. I needed time to collect myself; his sorrow was so heartfelt that he had nearly brought me to tears.  
  
*  
  
We sat just like that for a while. I reached up and stroked his hair, free of any attempts at taming it, and rubbed my hand along his bony back. He sat quietly; I could feel his breath on my neck. Finally, I broke the silence. “I really am home again,” I assured him, “and I do know that you are truly sorry for what you said. Now, shall you help me to unpack?”  
  
*  
  
So that was how we had ended up in my bedroom, with my darling draped rather decoratively across the bed and being no help whatsoever—I was most assuredly home. And now I had drawn out of my valise some new articles of clothing that I had purchased during my absence from our home, eliciting his exclamation—and I admit that I was a bit cruel to threaten to leave again.  
  
“It is pyjamas,” I explained patiently to his still-beautiful-even-upside-down countenance.  
  
“Why on earth would you have purchased those?” he demanded, sitting up.  
  
“To sleep in?”  
  
“That is what nightshirts are for,” he explained carefully in that “this is rather obvious” voice of his.  
  
“Sherlock, nightshirts have become rather old-fashioned. Do you not see the advertisements?”  
  
“Of course I _see_ them. I have no idea what one thing has to do with the other.”  
  
“You are being deliberately obtuse,” I growled. “It is nearly the twentieth century. Things are changing, and we must change with them.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
I laughed. He was clearly intent on being stubborn, and it was most certainly not the first time we had had quite different views on this particular subject. “Does there have to be a reason other than I wished to try something new?” I reasoned.  
  
“But there is no reason to when the old things are perfectly fine.”  
  
“You are not so encumbered by the past when it comes to science; if anything, you advance it.” He considered this, and to my great delight, I seemed to have stumped him. “We have a telephone now. You certainly have no objection to the advancement of the use of fingerprints as evidence.” Continued silence. “So why the objection to some new clothes?”  
  
He shrugged, the picture of nonchalance.  
  
“You know that I enjoy new clothes. In fact, you have remarked more than once that my taste in clothing is faddish.”  
  
“It is,” he agreed.  
  
“And yours is much more… traditional, and I have never once objected to that.”  
  
“No,” he admitted. I could actually see his brain working; reviewing his wardrobe—for despite his decidedly Bohemian approach when in the privacy of our home, every single garment that he wore outside of our rooms was respectable, sedate, correct. Even when travelling in the country, his tweeds and boots somehow looked more—dignified, I suppose—than mine. Finally, he responded. “I have remarked more than once on your taste in clothing—and music—and novels—and all sorts of things, John, but it was just to remark on them. I never once meant to be insulting. I _like_ that you have different taste than mine. I _like_ that you are willing to try new styles; that you can find a yellow-backed novel harmless and entertaining. There are many times when I am envious of your ability to enjoy such things.”  
  
I admit it—I was taken completely by surprise by this. “I have never once felt that you approved of my choice in theatrical performances, or restaurants, or… well, the first time I wore my bowler to a crime scene I thought that you were going to faint.”  
  
And then Sherlock Holmes did a thing that he does so very rarely that it is worth remarking on: he blushed. He truly did, and I found that I could no longer keep a solemn expression. “It’s true,” he admitted in a low voice. “I knew of other… men who wore such things, but I did not understand until that moment that I was living with one of them.”  
  
“Is that such a horrible thing?” I inquired drily.  
  
“No! Not anymore.”  
  
“No?” I was genuinely intrigued by his comment. “You do seem rather dedicated to maintaining the ‘status quo’ for your costume…”  
  
“There is a reason for that,” he offered. I continued to put away my clothing and toiletry items whilst he talked. “John, I have to explain—my family—my family’s status was always rather precarious. My mother’s ancestor was an artist, after all—hardly a respectable thing. And my father’s… well, even if he did come from a good name he did essentially ruin it, at least in the small social circle in which they were included in their time.”  
  
I was silent, realising that the subject that I had rather facetiously introduced had changed into something quite serious and close to my love’s heart.  
  
“Mycroft was most affected by it,” he continued. “He was extremely ambitious—wanting to have a public life—and the stain of any impropriety was a deep one indeed. He began at quite a young age to counter all the… gossip, I suppose you would call it… with projecting an image of unimpeachable character. Was the new program at the musical hall a bit risqué? He would rather be caught dead than in attendance. Were some young men being characterised in the newspapers as being ‘ridiculous’ for wearing their trousers so full? His remained modest to the extreme. No bright colours; no fads. No new music or novels or _anything_ , really.”  
  
“But what did this have to do with you?” I inquired, genuinely puzzled.  
  
“John,” he said—and his voice had a bit of that “must I explain this to an idiot” tone— “I am hardly in a respectable line of work. I consort freely with people from all walks of life, including the very lowest. I have had murderers to tea and been seen dining with prostitutes. I know more about the dirty, unseemly side of the so-called upper class than anyone. Illegitimate heirs traced; secret marriages exposed.  
  
“I am also not what anyone in their right mind would call a ‘normal’ man. I am brusque and intrusive. I focus on science over sentiment. I blatantly disregard human feelings for the sake of facts whilst being victim of horrid turns of my own… of my… you know.”  
  
I did know. His horrible, dark moods and equally horrible periods of mania were, to be blunt, not normal, and although I have touched on them in my published writing, only I, his brother, and our dedicated landlady knew the true extent of it all.  
  
His voice now became a bit wistful. “I am also not in a traditional relationship. I am not a husband and father, hurrying home to quiet evenings by the hearth, listening to my children recite their lessons whilst my wife mends my socks.”  
  
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, but my voice was tight. I knew, of course—and he knew that I knew.  
  
“I do not have to reiterate our countless conversations about hiding our relationship, do I?” he responded a bit bitterly. “Or how your editors see fit to disguise our household arrangements with false marriages to imaginary brides on your behalf?”  
  
“No,” I replied heavily.  
  
“So,” he summed up, suddenly returning to the thrust of our conversation, “the image that I project—an eccentric-to-the-point-of-lunatic consulting detective is difficult enough to manage without adding in anything about what I wear or what music I listen to.”  
  
And then I understood, and he was, as he usually was, entirely correct. He had a hard enough time being taken seriously as it was—who, really, had time for his sermons on ash and footprints and the significance of _not_ hearing a sound?  
  
“Although—I will confide in you because I do love you, John—” and then, so close to a revelation, his resolve dissolved and he stopped speaking. I was intrigued—and his words “I do love you” sent sensations throughout my mind and body that I cannot even describe... I took a hold of myself.  
  
“What is it?” I encouraged. “You were about to tell me something—and please know that this is all in the deepest confidence and I will _never_ reveal the content of our conversation.”  
  
“I… sometimes I…”  
  
“What, my love?”  
  
“A few months ago, I considered,” he began in a conspiratorial tone, “that is, I almost went out in a cravat instead of a necktie.”  
  
“What?” I exclaimed in (mock) horror, the anxiety of the moment dissipated.  
  
“I had those bruises ‘round my neck—from that dreadful man in Battersea? My collar was causing me a great deal of discomfort… but then I recalled the trials of our friend Mr. Wilde and came to my senses.”  
  
I could not help myself one moment longer. I burst out laughing. “Oh, the horror!” I exclaimed. “You do know that Mr. Wilde was arrested for a bit more than wearing ‘aesthetic’ outfits?”  
  
He sulked at this, but I felt only a touch of chagrin. He was so very ridiculous sometimes. I did understand his point—very much so—but his example was, well… it was amusing.  
  
I completed my unpacking and Sherlock rather decisively shut and put away my valise, as if to assure himself that I was truly returned home and would not be using it again any time soon.  
  
“Now, I presume you have my correspondence somewhere?” I inquired as we returned to our sitting room.  
  
“On your desk,” he nodded.  
  
I spent some time addressing the various bills and letters that had arrived in my absence. There was nothing terribly pressing, but I wanted to get my responses out of the way.  
  
“What were you doing while you were away?” Sherlock startled me by asking after some time.  
  
“Mostly writing,” I replied. “I finished two cases. What did you get up to?” I asked this in an off-handed way.  
  
He did not reply.  
  
“Sherlock?” I pressed. “What were you doing?” He suddenly found something that seemed to interest him keenly in the newspaper. I knew what this meant. “You were poisoning yourself with that damned cocaine the entire time, weren’t you?”  
  
“If you already know, why do you ask?” he snarled back.  
  
“No wonder you were not eating. It always makes you lose what little appetite you have.” I was angry at him—partly because of his insidious habit and partly because he was being so evasive. I wanted him to admit it.  
  
“It helps me to focus; you know that,” he added defensively.  
  
“All right. Yes. So what were you focusing on?” I shot back.  
  
He did not reply. Instead, he dropped his newspaper and bowed his head down until his chin met his chest. “I was trying to write you a letter.”  
  
“Is that the letter you did not post?” He nodded. I was alarmed. What had him so upset? “What was in it that was so difficult for you to write?” I inquired, rising from my desk and approaching him. He shook his head, unable to respond. “What happened to it? Do you still have it?”  
  
Not raising his head, he pointed at his own desk. I stepped over to it and searched first its cluttered top, and then opened the top drawer. There it was. He had gotten it as far as being in an envelope and addressing it to me at my hotel before apparently changing his mind about sending it along. “May I?” I asked formally.  
  
“It is addressed to you,” he said in a flat tone.  
  
“If it will distress you for me to read it, then I won’t. I can just toss it into the fire and we can forget all about it.”  
  
“No. You may read it.”  
  
[The letter itself is attached to this particular manuscript. It has clearly been crumpled and then carefully smoothed out.]  
  
My dearest John,  
  
I have started and discarded a dozen letters to you this past week. I find that I cannot compose a single sentence without striking out half of it. I am not often so inarticulate, but our current situation seems to have struck me dumb.  
  
I wish I had been so silenced one week ago. I am so heartily ashamed of my wicked, cruel tongue. I have tried to learn to restrain myself, but you more than anyone knows that I have failed miserably. I wish that I could take my cruel words back; that you could somehow un-hear them.  
  
As I cannot do that, I must do the next best thing and explain to you that I truly did not mean a single thing I said. I was frustrated and angry at myself for not solving that case more quickly, and although I blamed you, it most certainly was no fault of yours.  
  
You have never been anything but a capable and vital companion, since the very first time we met, and you most certainly have never, ever allowed your war injuries to hamper your energetic activities. Indeed, I know that the contrary is more the truth. The scars left by the bullets and the horrible sepsis from which you suffered—and the brutally mishandled attempts to treat it surgically—most certainly do cause you pain. I know that cold weather in particular causes you distress. I have seen it in your face—in your eyes—when the damaged flesh tightens. But please, please understand that I have never once—not even in the most extreme of situations—considered you encumbered by your injuries, and you most certainly have never been useless as my assistant. For me to tell you that was wicked and cruel and utterly dishonest.  
  
That leads me to the second accusation I hurled at you that day—that your time at war was characterised by a false bravery buoyed by bright uniforms and the self-importance of the soldiers of our mighty nation. You are, in fact, the bravest man I know. I have endangered your life so many times, and you have never once shirked even the most unpleasant and hazardous of circumstances. How I could let such a falsehood pass my lips is inexcusable.  
  
It is all inexcusable—all of it. I am a selfish man who makes excuses for my horrible habits and ways. I make our lovely rooms uninhabitable with my loathsome tobacco and experiments. I take pleasure in childish theatrics. When I plunge into the depths of despair I am inclined to pull you down with me, and when mania overtakes me I want nothing but to keep you awake with me.  
  
In fact, I am rather stupefied that you have remained for so many years.  
  
But perhaps this time you will not return. I startle at every ring of the bell, believing that you have finally sent someone to collect your things and take you away entirely. I have no delusions about your accepting this, my apology, no matter how sincerely I mean it. I believe that I have irretrievably damaged our relationship this time.  
  
I also understand that I deserve to feel as awful as I do. I cannot eat or sleep. I am unable to concentrate. I have turned away clients. The only thing that calms me—that drives away the thoughts about all the horrible things I have done and said to you that constantly barrage me—is one of the very things that you despise.  
  
I feel that I am going slightly mad from regret and shame. Perhaps it would be best if you do not return.  
  
Yes, I believe that you should stay away; to return would just allow me the opportunity to hurt you again. You will please let Mrs. Hudson know where to send on your things. I wish you well.  
  
S  
  
*  
  
I was horrified. I found that my hands were shaking. I clutched the letter until it was quite a wadded mess.  
  
Sherlock had not moved a muscle the entire time I was reading, and he did not now, either. He sat bolt upright on the sofa, his head bowed and his hands clasped tightly together in his lap.  
  
Finally, I found my voice. “Did you… do you mean that? That you did not want me to return?”  
  
He remained silent.  
  
“Please, Sherlock, I need an answer. Do you wish for me to leave now?”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“Is that why you did not post this? You did not truly mean it, did you.”  
  
“But I did,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “I did not mean that I did not _want_ you to come home, but yes, I did mean that you would do better to stay away—perhaps find someone normal to be with. I am a horrible, hateful person and do not deserve to have you here.”  
  
I dropped the letter and nearly ran to embrace him. “My darling,” I whispered as I held his rigid frame. “It has nothing whatsoever to do about ‘deserve.’ It is true that you are not in any sense of the word ‘normal,’ but I am grateful beyond words for that. I thank God every day that you and I came together. I did try ‘normal’ for a bit—as you know—and it was a disaster. No, Sherlock—I love you, and that means every bit of you—even the less-than-loveable bits. I know that you do not intend to be cruel, even when your tongue is biting and wicked. I know that you cannot do anything about your… moods.”  
  
I raised his beautiful face to mine with a gentle finger under his chin.  
  
“My love,” I continued, “if I did not want to be here, I would not be. It has been—how many—years? Surely you know that I understand that Sherlock Holmes is unique among men, and surely you know that I—your friend and lover and doctor and Boswell—adore you exactly the way you are.  
  
“Do not mistake me—you do anger me sometimes. You hurt me with your sharp tongue and your dreadful, harmful habits. But please understand that even if I go away, I will always—always—return. I love you so very, very much, Sherlock.”  
  
He made a sort of whimpering sound and allowed his head to tip forward, pressing against my stomach as I stood in front of him.  
  
“It is all right, my love,” I continued. “I am here now, and do you know what I long for?”  
  
He shook his head even as it rested against me.  
  
“I wish to hold you. I wish for us to be together in our bed. I wish to show you that I do—truly—want to be here with you. I get so terribly worried about you. When Mrs. Hudson brings up our next meal, I wish to… I wish to feed it to you. You must eat. You must sleep. Will you… do you think that, now that I am here, you can manage that?”  
  
He roused himself a bit. “Yes, John,” he replied.  
  
“Come with me, then.”  
  
*  
  
I always forget how heavenly it is to be thus—in bed with my darling. I had stripped us both of any extraneous garments, so now I felt his cool skin against mine. I kissed his beautiful face and neck and shoulders, then settled down with his frail frame in my arms.  
  
I will not deny—I hoped that soon I would be kissing more than that, but at that moment I felt no urges except those of a comforting nature. My darling was battered and exhausted and withdrawn, and the only thing I wanted to do at that moment was to comfort him.  
  
“My sweetheart,” I whispered against his ear, “I wish for you to sleep for a while. Can you manage that?”  
  
“Yes,” he replied, “now that you are here.”  
  
*  
  
We had both slept for a few hours—I did not realise until he had drifted off how very tired I was, as well, so I was surprised when his sweet, deep voice roused me. “I still do not understand why you purchased those garments.”  
  
“By that I suppose you mean my new pyjamas.”  
  
“Yes. Ridiculous things.”  
  
I laughed. “They are quite comfortable and more practical—they don’t ruck up and leave your legs cold.”  
  
“I don’t mind being bare.”  
  
I paused at this, the image of him sprawled across either of our beds on his stomach, his nightshirt pulled up above his hips and his bare (and delicious) bottom on display for me.  
  
“I am not asking you to wear them,” I pointed out.  
  
He fell silent at this; apparently all of his objections had been thwarted.  
  
“Now, when we retire, do you wish to see me in my new nightclothes?”  
  
“No, John. I do not wish to see you in your new pyjamas.”  
  
“No?”  
  
He gave me a wicked, wicked smile that made me shudder from top to toe. He drew closer to me, his long arms wrapping around my waist. He looked directly into my eyes, and his voice was low and lovely as he brushed his lips against mine and uttered the most delicious words I have ever heard.  
  
“I wish to see you _out_ of them.”  
  
[Sherlock’s notation: _I am still so very sorry. I said cruel, vicious things that were entirely untrue, and I truly did not think that you would return—but I am so very, very grateful that you did._  
  
_I love you more than anything else in this entire world, John. Please—please—do not ever leave me again._ ]  
  



End file.
